One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“Or else what?”

Pickwick waddled up and pecked me as hard as she could on the knee. It wasn’t remotely painful, as a dodo’s beak is quite blunt. If she’d been a woodpecker, I might have had more reason to complain. I held her beak shut with my finger and thumb and then leaned down so close that she went cross-eyed trying to look up at me.

“Listen here,” I said, “try to peck me again and I’ll lock you in the toolshed overnight. Understand?”

Pickwick nodded her beak, and I let go, and she very quietly sidled from the room. There was a mechanical cough from behind me. It was Sprockett, and his eyebrow pointer was indicating “Puzzled.”

“How did the trip to the RealWorld go?” he asked.

“Not great.”

“So I observe, ma’am.”

I sat down at the kitchen table and ran my fingers through my hair.

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“Perhaps if ma’am would like to change out of her work costume? I could run a bath—perhaps a long soak might help.”

I looked down at the clothes I was wearing. It was classic Thursday: Levi’s, boots and a shirt, faded leather jacket and a pistol in a shoulder holster. I felt more at home in these now than I felt in my Gypsy skirts and tie-dye top. In fact, I would be happy never to see a sandal again, much less wear one.

“You know,” I said as Sprockett brought me a cup of tea, “I thought it was odd in the BookWorld. Out in the RealWorld it’s positively insane.”

“How was Landen?”

“Dangerously perfect.”

I told him all that had happened. Of Jack Schitt being Adrian Dorset, of Goliath, the Toast Marketing Board and the contention from Jenny that Thursday couldn’t be dead. I also told him my suspicions that I might actually be her, despite what Bradshaw had said and much evidence to the contrary.

“And then I lost a reader and got pissed off with Bowden, Carmine and Pickwick,” I added.

“Any clues as to Miss Next’s whereabouts?” asked Sprockett as he attempted to keep me on the task at hand.

“Only that Lyell is boring. How many Lyells are there in the BookWorld?”

Sprockett buzzed for a moment. “Seven thousand, give or take. None of them particularly boring—that’s a trait generally attached to Geralds, Brians and Keiths—or at least, here in the BookWorld it is.”

“Interviewing every Lyell would take too long. Friday and the peace talks are not getting any further away.”

“Did you speak to the Jack Schitt here in the series?”

“First thing when I got back.”

“And . . . ?”

“He knew nothing about Adrian Dorset or Murders. Didn’t even know that Jack wasn’t his real name.”

“But it’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?” said Sprockett, his eyebrow pointer clicking down to “Thinking.” “I mean, it can’t be a coincidence. Jack Schitt’s book being the accident book?”

“In the Outland there are coincidences. It’s only in the BookWorld they’re considered relevant. What about you? Come up with anything?”

“I went and spoke to TransGenre Taxis. To see if they were missing anyone.”

“And?”

“They wouldn’t give me any information. I think it was a mixture of corporate policy, laziness and overt coggism.”

“Really?” I replied. “We’ll see about that.”